Just a Bad Dream
by jaegerbott
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov wakes up to a world without Yuuri. And it hurts.


Warm sunlight peeks through window blinds and lands on Viktor's face, forcing the silver-haired male to wake up at about seven in the morning and to an oddly cold bed. Half-asleep, he moves his arms around, reaching for the blankets that have somehow pooled themselves over his ankles, and brings them over himself, just right below his chin. Once he's comfortable enough, he brings the other half over to where Yuuri is, lazily raising the rest of the blanket to where he expects the Japanese male to be sleeping.

Only, he doesn't find Yuuri right beside him. Instead, when Viktor pushes himself up and sweeps his eyes over Yuuri's side of the bed, he finds it empty—cold and untouched. But the realization doesn't him like a truck, only because he knows full well that Yuuri has it made it a habit nowadays to go for a morning run.

Viktor hums to himself at the pieces his sleepy mind had managed to piece, his eyes bleary and nearly closing. He looks over to where Makkachin is lying, reaches over to run a hand over the sleeping pooch, and falls back onto the bed, a sigh of content slipping through his lips. He grabs the rest of the blanket and pulls it over, cocooning himself well enough to keep warm. Sometimes, he likes waking up like this, only because it means that Yuuri will come in later to wake him up for breakfast. He likes waking up to Yuuri and morning kisses, to a drooling Yuuri, to a Yuuri dressed in an apron and smelling like food.

At the thought, Viktor chuckles. Despite being half-awake, he still has half a mind to surprise Yuuri and pull him into bed once the male comes in.

But an hour later, Viktor still wakes up to a cold bed and the apartment almost eerily quiet. When he pushes himself to sit upright, he blinks his eyes repeatedly and slowly, his ears aching to hear the low sizzle of breakfast being cooked or Makkachin's muffled barks from beyond the bedroom door. But he hears nothing and Viktor, finally awake, turns his head to their table clock, reading a sharp eight o' clock on the screen.

It's strange. It doesn't usually take Yuuri this long to come in and drag Viktor out of bed. And even if it did, Yuuri would normally send Makkachin in to rile him awake. But Makkachin is still lying on the bed with him, waking up and looking at him quite expectantly, and beside him, Yuuri's spot on the bed still feels awfully cold.

And it's quiet. Really quiet. And it causes a shiver to run down Viktor's spine.

Feeling a bit perturbed, Viktor makes his way out of the bed, his feet jumping slightly from touching the cold, hard floor but nothing he couldn't handle. He pulls his clothes on rather quickly and sloppily, with furrowed brows and a thin line on his lips. Makkachin jumps off the bed and the room echoes with a small thud.

The noise makes Viktor flinch a little. For some odd reason, it just seems much louder than he expected. Or maybe, the apartment is somehow much quieter?

Viktor shakes his head from the thought and finishes pulling his sweater over himself.

"Yuuri?" he calls out, sweeping out of the room with Makkachin in tow, the pooch's pants following close to the sound of his footsteps.

When Viktor arrives in the living room, everything looks the same—untouched and all together. Nothing is out of place, and yet, there is no sign of Yuuri.

"Yuuri!" Viktor tries again, only to hear his own voice reverberate throughout his apartment, somehow mockingly.

Viktor rubs at the back of his neck, feeling put off by the quiet of his apartment and how empty it seems. A low whine rumbles from behind him, and Viktor could only watch as Makkachin comes up to him, looking for the world confused and curious.

Chuckling, Viktor kneels down and hugs his hands around the pooch, rubbing and petting to the pooch's delight.

"Makkachin," Viktor drawls, smiling. "Do you know where Yuuri is?"

But in the end, all that Makkachin provides is a confused sound and Viktor sighs, standing back up. His eyes sweep over the apartment, eyebrows suddenly furrowing at the disappearance of some of Yuuri's things, which he was definitely sure was decorated around his apartment the night before he went to bed with Yuuri.

"Yuuri…did you leave?" Viktor wonders vaguely to himself, a frown on his lips, before he shakes his head from the thought. But still, he can only wonder why Yuuri is missing at this hour, without even telling him where he would be, and with Yuuri's stuff missing from their usual place.

Now, his apartment looks the way it did a year ago before he coached Yuuri. It looks the same as it did then, with nothing out of place. It's almost as if Yuuri did leave and—

This time around, it takes Viktor a little bit more conscious effort to quit the thought. But he can feel tears pooling in the corners of his eyes and he blinks them away. Beside him, a low-pitched moan is coming from Makkachin who is looking at him with wide eyes.

Taking in a deep breath, Viktor shakes his head one more time for good measure and, with his left hand, reaches into his pocket for his phone. He doesn't even look at the screen; he dials Yuuri's number onto the keypad because it's one of things he knows by heart. And so, as he hears the low ring of his phone, he waits with bated breath.

When it finally picks up, he doesn't hesitate. "Yuuri—"

"I'm sorry? There's no Yuuri here?" A voice answers in broken English.

"Yuuri." Viktor repeats, bewildered and unbelieving. "Katsuki Yuuri. This is Yuuri's phone number! Who are you! Where's Yuuri!"

" _No_ ," the voice—a gruff-sounding man—answers back. "No Katsuki Yuuri here. Wrong number."

The line goes dead, the blaring sound of a monotonous beep running through his ears, and Viktor's jaw goes slack, his eyes wide. As if on fire, he punches in another number phone, his fingers sloppily missing, and when it isn't fast enough, he pulls up his contacts list for another number.

The long ring makes his heartbeat, and once it finally pulls through, he finds himself practically screaming into the receiver. "Yakov!"

"Aghh! Vitya, why are you screaming?!" the older man groans on the other end. "Anyways, where are you! Are you coming to the rink or not!"

"Yakov," Viktor tries, sounding sickly sweet for his own good. "Is Yuuri there? Can you pass him your phone? He's not answering me. No. For some reason, I have the wrong number?"

A grin grows on his lips. It's painful.

"Yuri? Sure. But why do you need him?"

There's a rustle in the background as Viktor hears Yakov pull away from the phone. "Yuratchka! Vitya wants to talk to you!"

"No!" Viktor yells. Somewhere, Makkachin yelps in surprise. "No, Yakov! Yuuri! Katsuki Yuuri! I want to talk to Katsuki Yuuri, my fia—" And for a moment, Viktor stops.

His breath catches in his throat as he shuts his eyes closed, wondering why he can't feel the ring Yuuri gave him, the ring that meant so many things to him, on his finger. He feels the tears swarming in his eyes, afraid to bring his right hand up and see for himself whether the ring is still there or not.

His heartbeat is unbelievably loud, pounding against his chest that it hurts. His head is no different. A million thoughts and questions are running through his mind, and it feels like an earthquake. And as he looks over his apartment one more time, feeling the unwelcoming tone it speaks, the cold atmosphere that it wears like a veil, the impossible loneliness he never before would've imagined it would give from before Yuuri, it is painful. Everything really hurts right now.

"Oi! What the heck do you want from me? Would you just get your ass over to the rink, Viktor!"

Yuri Plisetsky's yells from the phone. His hands are shaky. But he tries to keep them and his own voice calm.

"Yuri—Yurio!"

"What?!"

"Where's Yuuri?" Viktor tries, unsure if the desperation is leaking from his tone.

It's silent for a moment before he hears Yuri answer.

"Who?"

Viktor's heart feels like it has dropped from his chest, and the word 'pain' suddenly feels like an old friend.

"Katsuki Yuuri!" Viktor practically screams into the receiver, his voice bouncing off the walls.

Makkachin yelps loudly this time around, while on the other end of the line, a muffled 'what the fuck?!' responds in shock. But Viktor doesn't care.

His chest hurts as it heaves up and down in slow, deep agonizing breaths. The tears he's kept in earlier are suddenly dripping from his eyes, clouding his vision. He doesn't get it; he doesn't understand. He has no idea what's going on because it seems to him like everyone has erased Yuuri from existence, as if Yuuri didn't exist.

"Vitya!" Yakov's voice booms out from his phone. Viktor can only look at it through wet, tired eyes, both bewilderment and fear straining against him.

"Vitya, what's going with you?! I thought you asked for Yuratchka!"

"No, I wanted—"

But Viktor stops and, in the next second, he finds himself laughing, gripping at his chest and his phone through tear-stained eyes. He wipes the tears away and breathes, watching as the wall clock hanging in his living room mocks him with nine and a half in the morning, way past breakfast time. He needs to feed Makkachin.

"Vitya! Hello!"

"I'll be a little late today, Yakov." Viktor speaks, sounding sweetly once again. He clicks the call closed, hearing Yakov's voice cut off at the sound of beep, and lets his phone slip back into his pocket.

The apartment is frighteningly silent. Even with the warm sunlight sweeping in, he feels unbelievably cold, with goosebumps crawling over his skin. Makkachin's voice whimpers.

"I'm sorry, Makkachin," Viktor apologizes, his voice breathy and raspy as the tears have finally all but stopped. "Just give me one more second. Please."

For some reason, his heart has been the loudest thing he's heard since he got out of bed, the most impossibly loud thing echoing in his ears in his silent apartment. He swallows hard, somehow feeling like his right hand isn't there, like it doesn't exist.

But once he moves his thumb over to his ring finger and feels something round over it, his breath hitches in his throat. Suddenly, his chest feels lighter, his heartbeat finally calming down and feeling light and airy. Could it be his imagination that his apartment is somehow brighter than it was only moments ago?

But that didn't matter, because the truth is there right on his ring finger, secured in the palm of his curled hand. Yuuri is here. Yuuri is definitely here.

With his breath stuck in his throat, Viktor brings his right hand up and feels the tears once again pooling in the corners of his eyes.

The ring is bronze, an ugly and dull color in his eyes, and Viktor doesn't know how many times his heart has to shatter before he no longer knows how to feel. He needs to laugh again, and he does. The bronze makes his stomach twist and turn, churning so sickly and painfully, that he doesn't know whether he can breathe again.

He doesn't know where he got it. He doesn't know how it got on his hand. He doesn't know why it's there because this is not _his_ ring. And he knows that this isn't _his_ ring, the ring that Yuuri gave him, because _his_ ring is gold. It's shiny. It's beautiful. It makes him want to kiss it and Yuuri several times over until his lips go numb and swollen.

This isn't his ring.

And Viktor needs to cry again. He doesn't normally cry this much—never had the need to—but for some reason, he's been having a lot of first's today. A lot of an L word too — loss.

He doesn't know where Yuuri is and why everyone seems to act like he doesn't exist and practically been around for almost a year. It's almost as if Yuuri had never been a part of his life to begin with, and it makes everything in Viktor hurt.

A whine suddenly bellows out from behind and Viktor could only meet with sad gaze.

"Makkachin…" Viktor starts. He falls to his knees and holds his arms wide open, allowing Makkachin to immediately run into his embrace. Resting his head on Makkachin, Viktor whispers low under his breath, apologetic. "I'm sorry I haven't fed you. I didn't forget you. I really didn't."

As he runs his hands through Makkachin's fur, the ring feels loose and strange on his finger, sliding back and forth in its place. Viktor lifts his right hand up, watching the bronze ring shine dully underneath the sunlight. He looks at it long and hard, his eyes watching his own sad expression reflecting off its surface.

"Maybe I've only been dreaming," Viktor breathes. He hugs Makkachin tighter. "Maybe none of it was real at all, Makkachin."

"Yeah, maybe it was never real. Maybe I just dreamt everything up."

Makkachin could only answer with a low-pitched howl, resting its head upon Viktor's own shoulder.

And at this, Viktor chuckles, trying to breathe back the tears that once again fall down his cheeks.

"Yeah, maybe I never had Katsuku Yuuri in the first place."

* * *

"—tor! Viktor!"

Viktor's eyes snap wide open, blurrily and hazily. He is breathing hard, his chest heaving up and down to the tune of raging, wild heartbeat. He sits up and cups his face, letting his bangs fall over his eyes as everything that he believed to have happened stays fresh in his head—imprinted like a bad memory.

"Viktor!"

This time, Viktor feels a hand pushing his bangs away and all he could do it let it. The hand is warm and kind and had he not woken up in tears, he would've melted into the hand wiping at his tears.

Because, in front of him, dressed in an apron and pressing down on the bed, Katsuki Yuuri is pushing his bangs aside. And Viktor can only wonder if his wildest dreams are somehow coming true.

"Viktor," Yuuri starts as he wipes away another tear. "You're crying?"

"Yeah," Viktor breathes shakily, laughing. But the tears don't stop. "I guess I am."

"Did you have a bad dream?"

With an equally shaky grin, Viktor nods his head. "Yeah, I guess I did."

A nightmare actually, he leaves unsaid.

And the thought continues to remain unsaid because the moment he admitted to having a bad dream, Yuuri had already thrown his arms around Viktor, pulling the silver-haired male into a deep hug. It catches Viktor off-guard and makes his breath stop in his throat but he nonetheless melts into the warm embrace, feeling for the world as if life and love were flowing back into him and he had lost nothing for it.

"Yuuri," Viktor breathes, loving the mess of their bed, the warmth, the smell of breakfast wafting from Yuuri's body. "What's for breakfast?"

"I made eggs." Yuuri pulls back, his fingers reaching over to still brush at the tears left in Viktor's eyes and on his cheeks. "But you know, we've been living together for a long time now, and I've really gotta admit." Yuuri starts just before pulling back with reddened checks, rubbing at the back of his own neck and looking both shyly and ashamed.

"Viktor, I really don't know how to cook. I can't believe you actually let me go in the kitchen by myself. Honestly."

Viktor watches as Yuuri scolds, and he can only contain himself for a second before gleefully falling back onto the bed, bringing Yuuri down with him.

Yuuri falls onto Viktor's chest with a surprised gasp, nearly losing his glasses. He's staring Viktor wide but curious eyes, and Viktor just brings Yuuri closer to him, burying his face into the crook of his fiancé's neck. He smiles. He sighs in content and happiness, and it's all he wants.

"I'm thinking of eating you for breakfast, Yuuri!"

"Wait, no. No, Viktor. Real breakfast! Come on!" Yuuri tries to pull away, unsuccessfully and not really trying either.

"But I'm in the mood for Japanese!"

"Maybe…later?"

Viktor hears the other say.

"S-So, let's go have real breakfast now! Or we'll be late, and you know how mad Yakov gets when we're late! Real breakfast, Viktor!"

"Hmm," Viktor hums. "Then I'll help you make it."

Yuuri blinks at this, if only because it normally takes him so long to get Viktor out of bed than this. "Really?" he says, peering at Viktor between silver bangs.

"Yeah. I'm tired of burnt eggs for breakfast, Yuuri."

"Wait. Are you saying you never liked my eggs? Viktor?"

But Viktor doesn't respond. Instead, he breathes and, behind Yuuri, he lifts up his right hand. The gold ring on his finger meets him with a beautiful glisten, shining wonderfully under the batch of sunlight that manages through the window blinds.

He gives the ring a kiss, his lips straying on the gold that is cold to his touch. But it's okay because he loves it anyways, loves it so much, loves it nonetheless. He loves Yuuri.

And it is with this ring and with Yuuri in his arms, in his life, and filling it with so much love that Viktor knows that _this_ is his reality now. This life—with burnt eggs, a messy apartment, and a bed always filled with two each night—is real life, and Viktor Nikiforov believes in it.

* * *

 **If you can, I would love to have a review! ^^**


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